for a cab; then, shrugging my shoulders, I walked lazily back to
the copse, with no definite object in my mind. It was dreadfully
dark in the copse. Here and there between the trees the windows of
the summer villas glowed a dull red. A raven, disturbed by my steps
and the matches with which I lighted my way to the summer-house,
flew from tree to tree and rustled among the leaves. I felt vexed
and ashamed, and the raven seemed to understand this, and croaked
'krrra!' I was vexed that I had to walk, and ashamed that I had
stayed on at Kisotchka's, chatting like a boy.

"I made my way to the summer-house, felt for the seat and sat down.
Far below me, behind a veil of thick darkness, the sea kept up a
low angry growl. I remember that, as though I were blind, I could
see neither sky nor sea, nor even the summer-house in which I was
sitting. And it seemed to me as though the whole world consisted
only of the thoughts that were straying through my head, dizzy from
the wine, and of an unseen power murmuring monotonously somewhere
below. And afterwards, as I sank into a doze, it began to seem that
it was not the sea murmuring, but my thoughts, and that the whole
world consisted of nothing but me. And concentrating the whole world
in myself in this way, I thought no more of cabs, of the town, and
of Kisotchka, and abandoned myself to the sensation I was so fond
of: that is, the sensation of fearful isolation when you feel that
in the whole universe, dark and formless, you alone exist. It is a
proud, demoniac sensation, only possible to Russians whose thoughts
and sensations are as large, boundless, and gloomy as their plains,
their forests, and their snow. If I had been an artist I should
certainly have depicted the expression of a Russian's face when he
sits motionless and, with his legs under him and his head clasped
in his hands, abandons himself to this sensation. . . . And together